


My consolation prize

by dana_norram



Series: A question of lust (trust) ~ aka The Monastery Series [3]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Canon Compliant, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Massage, Missing Scene, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram
Summary: When Martín suggests a bet the night before the football game, he’s absolutely sure they will win.Spanish version available at:Mi premio de consolación
Relationships: Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: A question of lust (trust) ~ aka The Monastery Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772728
Comments: 20
Kudos: 48





	My consolation prize

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place a few weeks after the events of [ You better learn your lesson well ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530086), but it can be read as one-shot. Just assume they have been sleeping together for some time. I have other stories planned that should fit into the timeline between these two fics, but I had the idea for this one first and needed to get it out before it festered in my mind and prevent me from writing anything else. Enjoy it... I guess?  
>   
> As always, [fedorah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedorah/pseuds/fedorah) is an amazing writer slash human begin slash beta who should get only good things in life. Thank you, bb, for everything. Remaining mistakes are mine, and mine alone.

When Martín suggests a bet the night before the football game, he’s absolutely sure they will win.

Sergio drew the teams that afternoon and Tokyo picked Helsinki before Nairobi could, so she made sure she got Martín. They had a team meeting right before dinner where Nairobi explained her strategy, and Martín couldn’t help admiring her when she suggested to use _him_ to distract Helsinki. Bogotá laughed and Marseille merely rolled his eyes at them.

“So,” he begins as Helsinki fills their glasses with red wine. “What do you say we make things a little more interesting for tomorrow?”

Helsinki takes a seat on his bed, naked from the waist up and Martín can’t help thinking how comfortable he looks and that thought makes something stir in both his chest and his groin. He can’t say he’s surprised, really. They have been doing this for almost six weeks now. He’s also not complaining, not in the slightest. Helsinki helped to make those weeks a little more bearable and Martín is nothing but grateful for his solid build and his selfless manners.

“Are you talking about the game?” Helsinki takes a sip of his glass, staining his moustache with purple. Martín wants to smile, but it’s easier not to.

“What about a little bet?” He prompts, sitting cross-legged, only in his boxers and undershirt. “The winner gets to ask for _anything_.”

Helsinki raises an eyebrow. “You mean in... the bedroom?”

This time, Martín lets himself smile. Sometimes he doesn’t know if the language barrier is just something Helsinki uses to allow him to be blunter, to be clear, to open himself up. The idea makes him uneasy, but he’s decided not to show it.

“Well,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be in the bedroom. Could be the kitchen, the library, in one of the cars, in the Professor’s cell-”

“We are not doing it _there_ ,” Helsinki sounds appalled and Martín chuckles.

“Tranquilo, Gordo,” he purrs as he leans in a little closer, “Tranquilo. We can draw the line there, then. Not the Professor’s bedroom. Anything else is on the table.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Could be on a table, too.”

“So, anything?” Helsinki asks and Martín feels his face heat up. He dismisses it right away, it’s probably just the wine finally kicking in.

“Anything,” he winks, and Helsinki laughs good-naturedly as he clinks their glasses together.

It’s all a bit of blur after this, as Martín crawls over the mattress to open up his pants, his mouth salivating as he feels Helsinki’s fingers in his hair. Soon, the world around him dissolves into the salty taste against his tongue, the sound of Helsinki’s moans above his head. As usual, there’s some music playing in the background, and although he can barely make out the melody, right before he feels Helsinki’s fingers tighten against his scalp, he thinks he can distinguish the words _my consolation prize_ and he would have laughed, if he wasn’t too busy trying not to choke.

  
  
  


In retrospect, maybe he should just have let Helsinki fuck him the night before.

For one, that usually makes him tired enough in the mornings, which could have been useful during the match. Or at least, Martín could have put the blame on his own weak legs for not scoring that stupid penalty. Now, he has to deal with the consequences, and he can’t blame anyone but himself. He’s the one who made the stupid bet, after all. He let Nairobi convince him to wear the shortest shorts (which _did_ help distracting Helsinki thoroughly, yes, especially when Denver pulled them down his thighs in front of everyone). But in the end, he was the one who lost the game and now... now Helsinki comes to collect his prize.

They stare at each other in silence after Helsinki says what he has in mind.

“What?” Martín replies, because he must have heard wrong.

When he suggested the bet, he just thought it would be a bit of fun. Maybe he could persuade Helsinki to be a little rougher in bed, convince him to put his big hands around his neck as they fucked and then squeeze it, just a little (he always wanted to try that and Helsinki seemed more reliable than any of his previous partners). Or maybe he could ask him to wear his soldier uniform in the bedroom, combat boots and all, or maybe, maybe ask him to steal a monk’s robes, put them on so Martín could kneel before him in the confessional.

He didn’t think Helsinki could win, honestly, not with two women on his team, and even if he did, what’s the worst that could happen, he thought then. Helsinki didn't strike him as a pervert or someone who would want to actually hurt or humiliate him, but he has been wrong before. Maybe Helsinki would ask Martín to walk naked on all fours and lap at his balls or perhaps he would want to put his cock so far up his throat that tears would run down his cheeks and snot out of his nose. Martín thought of all sorts of crazy scenarios from the moment he left the field, showered and put on nothing but his boxers and a robe and waited in his room until the familiar knock on the door.

But.

“Can I kiss you?” Helsinki repeats, somehow lamely, as if he’s already regretting the whole thing and Martín doesn’t know what make of it.

The truth is... Helsinki never outrightly tried to kiss him before. He never overstepped that unspoken rule. He had locked eyes with Martín as they fucked, he even licked his own lips as they panted together, but he never dared to breach that small space between their mouths and Martín never leaned in either. Whenever things got too intense, he usually just turned his face, bit into a pillow, or put an arm over his mouth to muffle his own whimpers.

He thought about it, of course. He missed kissing. He never made a conscious decision to go all those years without kissing the men he was sleeping with.

On the first month after Andrés left him, he just didn’t seek anyone. Instead, he patiently waited for a phone call, for an apology, his lips still burning with the memory of their kiss. Then, he actively tried to track him down, but Andrés had vanished from the face of the earth. Probably holed up in an old country house with his precious little brother as they planned their precious grand Heist without him.

One day, well into the third month, Martín woke up and realised he couldn’t wait anymore. So he showered thoroughly and put on his tightest pants and went out to dance and drink. He ended up that night on his knees in an alley with a stranger’s cock down his throat. That man didn’t try to kiss him, nor did most of those who came after him. The few who tried got only a mocking laugh, or a couple of hard shoves in return and, only once, a blow to the face. His hand hurt for a whole week after that, but he went home with all his teeth. The other guy couldn’t say the same.

“Palermo?” Helsinki’s voice drags him back to the present and when he looks up, he sees genuine worry on his face.

Martín feels like kicking himself. He knows now that he prefers it when Helsinki is smiling. He has a nice, warm smile and Martín likes how his face lights up when he makes him laugh, how his blue eyes become brighter and full of life as Martín jokes or explains a part of the plan with some flourish that makes Sergio roll his eyes at him. So, no, Martín doesn’t like seeing a worried look on Helsinki’s face, least of all to know he’s the reason behind it.

He sighs and pats the empty spot by his side on the bed and waits for Helsinki to join him. He wonders if it’s still too early for a drink.

It’s not a big deal, or at least, it shouldn’t be, he tells himself. It’s just a kiss. If he can sleep like a baby after having a stranger’s cock down his throat, why should having someone’s tongue make him shudder at the thought? _It’s just a kiss_ , he repeats to himself as he watches Helsinki take a few steps towards the bed.

“I didn’t know Balkan people were _that_ kinky,” he says when Helsinki finally sits.

He’s just fresh from the shower, his silver beard still a bit wet, and he’s wearing a pair of loose red pants and a black t-shirt that seems to strain against the muscles on his arms, his tattoos on full display. Martín can’t stop staring at him, eager to touch, but restraining himself. He can’t help thinking he looks like a former god, an exiled titan trying to hide among humans after his banishment from the upper world.

“What kind of kiss are we talking about, hm?” he says, feeling the knot in his chest slowly untying when Helsinki’s mouth twists into a smile. “It cannot be the Greek kind, surely? I believe we did that one already.”

This time, Helsinki laughs, his whole body shaking and Martín relaxes, leaning towards that sound. He watches in silence as Helsinki turns, raises a hand to touch his face, but Martín’s reflexes are faster. He grabs Helsinki’s wrist before he realises what’s he’s doing, stops him. He feels as he starts to move away, and Martín knows he can’t let that happen.

He’s made a promise, after all.

He climbs on Helsinki’s lap with an ease only built by having done that a few times before and he sighs in relief when a pair of huge hands grab his ass to keep him in place. He likes this position, even if it makes his muscles, sore from the match, strain almost painfully as he tries to adjust himself.

Helsinki smiles up at him, but he doesn’t move an inch and Martín knows he would have to do this on his own. It shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks, his heart pumping fast against his ribcage. Helsinki’s eyes are watching him with such intensity that he feels small, much like he felt small before. But he knows he’s not the same man back in the chapel, about to lose everything he cared about in a matter of minutes. Now, the only way is forward.

And maybe this time, his lips won’t burn.

He gets it wrong on the first try. With his eyes half-closed, Martín fails to aim, and ends up bumping their noses together. He can’t help laughing when they stare at each other, because he feels ridiculous. He feels utterly ridiculous for making a stupid bet, for losing a stupid game, for overthinking this simple, stupid thing and then, then he feels afraid when he feels a hand on his face once more because Martín realises Helsinki looks... smitten is not the word he would use, but it’s the only one that does it justice.

His mind tells him he should put a stop to this, before he gets burned, gets crushed, before it’s too late, but he realises he can’t move, and he feels his eyelids closing once more as soft, warm lips press against his.

It doesn’t crush him, maybe it does burn a little, though, the scratch of his beard against his skin. It's nothing but a peak, first, their mouths closed, the smallest amount of saliva, just enough to wet their lips. It doesn't last. Helsinki is careful, almost tender, but unyielding when his hand slides from Martín’s face to the back of his neck and his tongue teases his lips open.

Martín kisses him back. It’s muscle memory, a flutter in his heart. His mind is blank except for the sensations of a soft, warm, wet tongue against his, the soft, warm, gentle hand on his hair, not so much to keep him close, but to ground him, to make him hyperaware that this time, it doesn’t have to end in tears.

He feels a heat radiating from his chest throughout his entire body and he grinds their groins together, a deep sense of accomplishment when Helsinki moans into his mouth. He’s cold when his robe begins to be slowly pulled off his shoulders and he realises too late he had forgot to turn on the radiator, the warmth of the morning and the excitement of the game slipping away into a chill afternoon.

Helsinki releases his mouth and Martín has barely any time to think why when he feels warm lips on his chin, then his neck, not really kisses now, more like a press of open, wet lips, until he feels a mix of tongue and teeth against one of his nipples and he cries out before he can stop himself. He bucks over Helsinki's lap, presses his ass down on his cock.

He doesn’t seem to care, though, as he doesn’t meet his thrusts. Helsinki seems content in making both of his nipples as hard as his cock, one with his mouth, the other between his fingers, and Martín thinks something as simple as that shouldn’t make him forget how to speak.

“Helsinki,” he manages, eventually, and is embarrassed of how desperate he sounds. Anyone would take advantage of it. “Please.”

But not Helsinki, apparently. He smiles up in adoration and Martín closes his eyes because he can’t bear to think what that means. He accepts the kiss he’s given, though, and again, grinds his ass on his lap. He just can’t help it. That’s the only dance he knows all the steps to.

“Fuck me,” he breathes out, voice small, thick. “Fuck me,” he repeats even after Helsinki is already nodding in agreement and pushing him down to the bed.

The pillow is cool against the back of his neck, and the mattress feels less soft than Helsinki’s lap did, but he doesn't complain, because there he is between his open legs, crossing the small space between their faces.

This one kiss is different, it’s hard and wet, teeth and tongue mostly, and Martín curls a leg around his waist like a vine before he realises what he’s doing and Helsinki presses against him, increases the strain against his body.

Martín knows the pain is coming before it hits him fully. It blinds his mind for half a second, an electric shock inside his left thigh, his muscles having been twisted and pulled into an agonising knot. The cramp is too overwhelming for him to fight it in silence, so he comes out of the kiss with a pained gasp, his hands digging into Helsinki’s shoulders.

Helsinki lets go of him immediately, as if he was electrocuted. “Palermo?” he sounds in pain himself and Martín wants to say that he’s okay, but he can’t seem to find the words as he grabs his left thigh, trying to ride out the pain, his teeth grinding, his whole body a single, aching muscle.

“Breathe,” Helsinki says after a moment. “Palermo, it’s just a cramp, you need to breathe it out.”

Martín doesn’t know how that makes any sense, but he does it and slowly, surely, the pain decreases as he breathes out, breathes in. He falls back on the bed, not realising he was sat bolt upright a minute earlier. Only then, Helsinki leaves the bed and comes back a moment later with a glass of water. He helps Martín drink it with a hand on the back of his neck. He feels his other hand on his thigh, and his skin feels cool enough for something that was certainly on fire before.

“It’s just a sign of dehydration,” he says when Martín finishes the glass. “It’s okay.”

“Well, it surely isn’t lack of workout, as you can attest yourself,” he jokes, but Helsinki looks very seriously at him. “Sorry for ruining your winning ceremony.” He tries then, and this time, he’s rewarded with a smile.

“Turn around,” Helsinki says, and Martín rises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say a thing as he does as he’s told and soon enough, he can feel Helsinki’s belly pressed against the small of his back.

He was about to ask if Helsinki’s next idea of a prize was _cuddling_ him, when he feels a knee being pressed between his legs and he realises, much to his own surprise, that he’s not really in the mood for sex right now, but before he can say anything, a massive hand starts to massage the sore muscles of his thigh. He moans against his pillow.

“Good?” Helsinki asks and Martín wonders if the smugness in his voice is enough to force him to stop. Then, he feels himself relaxing under his touch and decides Helsinki has earned the right to be smug.

Martín eventually becomes aware he’s wearing nothing but his boxers, his robe lost somewhere between the moment Helsinki started to play with his nipples and the time he caved and asked him to fuck him. It’s a strange sensation, he thinks, being almost completely naked, laying in a bed with someone fully clothed pressed against him. He thinks he should feel vulnerable, but truth is, now, he feels quite safe.

Helsinki keeps kneading his muscles until the pain bleeds out, leaving behind nothing but an echo and very soon the closeness of his body, of his warm breaths on his neck, his beard tickling against his shoulders, becomes a little too much for Martín to bear. And he isn’t really thinking when he grabs Helsinki’s hand and presses it to the front of his boxers.

There’s an intake of breath against his ear, then Helsinki’s hand is inside his underwear, his mouth over the back of his neck. Martín presses his eyes shut, pushes himself fully against Helsinki’s body.

He can’t help thinking about how many times Helsinki must have done something similar for a stranger. Just like the way they are now, trapped in a small bed, maybe in an army tent or in a prison cell, just two people trying to find something else to do to pass the time as a storm rage outside. Two people sharing something forbidden, something essential, something unspoken.

Martín turns his head so he can look at Helsinki and he feels his breath catching against his throat when he looks back, his mouth slightly open, hooded eyes filled with desire. Martín feels Helsinki’s cock against the small of his back and he knows he must enjoy this, to give pleasure and taking almost nothing in return. Some people could live off scraps forever. Takes one to know one.

“You can fuck my thighs,” Martín says. “If you want.”

Helsinki licks his lips and he nods as if he doesn’t trust words at all and he lets go off him just for a moment too long. Martín can’t really see it, but he feels every little movement behind him, pants and underwear shoved out of the way, not all, but just enough, then one of his legs being gently lifted and something solid and warm and slippery pressed between his inner thighs.

He closes his eyes and feels Helsinki's hand back on his cock. He quickly picks up a rhythm, jerking him off as he fucks his thighs with abandon. Martín doesn’t know what do with his hands, so he twists one of his arms back, grabs a piece of clothing he assumes it’s Helsinki’s pants and dives his hand in, needing only to feel warm skin under his fingers.

That’s when he notices Helsinki had a hand free that whole time as he touches his face, inserting two fingers into his mouth and Martín sucks them eagerly, not really thinking about what he has in mind for them. He finds out soon enough, when his nipples are pinched hard and then he’s turning his head back again, opening his month under Helsinki’s, drowning both of their moans.

When he finally comes, it is without a warning. Helsinki must have felt it, though, maybe because there’s not an inch of his body not touching Martín’s, for he stops kissing him in time so he can hear his breathy whimpers and he keeps pumping his cock until he’s dry. Martín presses his thighs together with such a force he immediately feels something warm and sticky spill between them and he realises Helsinki has just come too, and almost at the same time as him.

Now, with his whole body feeling like it was stripped from its bones, the only thing on his mind is sleep. Instead, he turns around to face Helsinki, who looks at him with a tired smile. Martín wants to smile back, and he’s not sure of what he should do now there’s no longer a common goal for them to achieve. He thinks he should send Helsinki off on his way so they can wash up before dinner, but he doesn’t want to move, nor speak.

He thinks he may have said something aloud anyway when Helsinki stands up and tidies up his clothes, and Martín regrets it instantly. He shivers as the sweat starts to cool on his skin, but before he can do anything about it, Helsinki is back with a washcloth he runs between his thighs, cleaning his skin, then he helps him out of his ruined boxers. Martín lays there, completely naked, and doesn’t feel the need to cover himself despite the cold.

They stare at each other for a moment and Martín knows Helsinki will leave if he asks him to and maybe he shouldn’t get used to it, but right now, this feels like something too precious to let it go. He hasn’t had anything to hold on to for too long. So he grabs his wrist and pulls him back into bed and he doesn’t hesitate this time when Helsinki seeks his mouth. They make out lazily until his whole body is warm once again.

_This is not sleeping together, is it?_ , he muses, as he turns and lets Helsinki embrace him. They are only killing a little time before dinner, that’s all.

“Palermo?” Helsinki’s voice is muffled against his shoulder. “It’s half past-eight, we should get up.”

“In a minute,” Martín replies, his eyes closed. He feels his lips burning, only this time, it doesn’t hurt that much.

  
  
  


_Here under God's sky  
His watchful eye  
And all of the lies  
My consolation prize_

_Sea of sin  
My second skin  
My home from home_  
**Sea of sin – Depeche Mode**

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked it. I'd love to hear your thoughts. :) You can also come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dana_norram) or [Tumblr](https://call-me-jerusalem.tumblr.com/)! :)
> 
> I had the idea for this fic as I re-watched the football match and realised that, for some reason, Palermo was wearing the shortest shorts between both teams. I headcanon’ed a bit about it [here](https://twitter.com/dana_norram/status/1278426645569961984) and people chose to enable my horny brain instead of telling me to shut up. So this one is their fault as much as it is mine.


End file.
